ATTN ALL: This Post Is Now Complete. Read If Interested; Don't If Not. It's More For Me Than For You Anyway.

In a previous post, Your Author outlined the events resulting in our boat being deposited unceremoniously in the driveway at my son's house. Thought I had seen the last of it for a while... but, but and then again BUT:

Got back to Dallas on the 25th of April; we HAD to be on the road by the 30th to be sure we arrived in Montana by May 3rd, as Allison's new contract started on the fifth. Got a call from Bryan; he had changed his mind about being able to keep the boat, as he was afraid he was gonna get a citation for blocking the sidewalk. HEAVY SIGH. So, I mounted up on Saturday the 26th, headed once more the sixty miles to his house to see what we could do.

Spend about six hours Saturday disassembling the entire starboard side window frame. Make a trip to Home Depot. Buy 1/4-inch Plexiglass for window material. Cut Plexiglass. Reassemble window framing. Boat fixed.

Boat After Repair:


Ask Bryan whether he would like to see how it runs. He agrees, so we hitch up and head for Lake Worth, a little reservoir off the end of the former Carswell Air Force Base north-south runway.

Find ramp. Dump boat in water. Discover at this time that Bryan has NO boating experience (should have known this but somehow didn't). Give Bryan crash course on safety and basic knots. Get boat started (thank God for starter fluid; gas in tank has been in boat for 6 months all the way from Maine). Note sign that says 'Day Use Permit Required; Purchase At Marina'. Head off for marina to comply with law like Good Citizen.

Find marina. Throttle down, respecting 'NO WAKE' rule, again like Good Citizen. Note Fish and Game cop boat exiting marina. Go to idle, wave him down to ask about Day Permit.

Spend next 30 minutes answering endless questions about boat's Maine registration. Sense that cop questions Good Citizen's overall sanity for hauling $2000 boat 2000 miles. At end of conversation, cop issues citation for EXPIRED MAINE REGISTRATION. Cop then mandates boat be removed from water immediately. Total time on water: 45 minutes, including interrogation. Cop nice enough to advise Good Citizen that citation will be dismissed if Citizen goes to Fort Worth Fish and Game office, applies for Texas title, and gets valid registration.

Re-trailer boat. Drive 30 miles back to Bryan's house to drop him off. Advise that I will re-stow boat at Chad's office, RIGHT BACK WHERE IT STARTED. Also advise that I will try to get the boat titled and registered IN THE NEXT TWO DAYS, and get the citation dismissed. Total potential driving involved to do all this: about another 200 miles. Get back on road to head back to Plano, still hauling boat. Thirty minutes later; enter George Bush Turnpike, boat still in tow, still heading for Plano.

The Turnpike, for those who don't know it, is one of the five or six most heavily-travelled highways in Texas; it essentially makes a loop around the north side of Dallas, providing access from the northern and western suburbs to D-FW International Airport and the Mid-Cities area. It is also a toll highway, which in Texas means 'I paid to drive on this thing, so that means that the speed limit signs are JUST A SUGGESTION'. The signs say '65 MPH' but the average velocity of the traffic is more like about 80.

SO... enter the Turnpike, mood foul and getting worse, rock-n-roll blaring on the Sirius, mulling the near-impossible logistics of 1)assembling all the Maine paperwork, 2) making Tuesday dental appointment, set six months in advance, 3) getting to Fish and Game office in Fort Worth to get registration, and finally 4)getting all the way back over to Lake Worth to talk to Justice of the Peace and get ticket dismissed. All by end of day Tuesday. Decide it's all just barely possible, if nothing else goes wrong...

Three miles up Turnpike, feel sickeningly severe lurch to the left side. Wrest control back from truck that suddenly wants to drive right into the median, which is blessedly wide at this point. Steal quick glance in side mirror just in time to SEE BOAT'S LEFT WHEEL, TIRE AND ALL, PASSING ME AT SEVENTY MPH. Ponder briefly that this is probably not normal, then note with interest the thirty-foot-high shower of sparks emanating from left side of trailer. Cool! Realize trailer has lost its left wheel and is now dragging on steel axle at an unsettlingly high speed.

Brake carefully, unsure how new angle of trailer is affecting hitch's grasp. Other drivers honking insanely as if they are certain I am unaware of anything out of ordinary. Remove both hands from wheel briefly to give obligatory dual one-finger salute. Pull screechingly to median side of road.

Boat With Broken Fetlock:


Open truck door and resignedly drag self outta vehicle. Walk back toward trailer, attention focused on now-useless spindle resting forlornly on asphalt. New sensory input: what's that smell? Lift gaze back toward path of previous travel and realize that sparks from trailer HAVE SET THE DAMNED MEDIAN ON FIRE, and now the foot-high grass is burning cheerfully in a ten-yard circle about a hundred yards back!!!

HUGE SIGH. Slog wearily back down highway. Main thought on endless loop through short-circuited brain: glad I had to climb in the water to get the boat out, so jeans and shoes are still wet from the lake. Spend ten minutes resolutely stomping out grass fire. Now covered with soot, pants scorched and shoes feel like I been standing on a griddle.

Just thinking about all this is making me tired. I will finish it tomorrow.

P.S. Wisdom For The Day: Experts say that the human thought process is never complete without articulation, and this particular Divine Comedy is not even CLOSE to being finished. You, Dear Reader, are at this point unpaid (and probably worth about what it costs) therapy regarding this subset of occurrences, and you'll just hafta suffer through it before we can move on...

Scotty

OK, let's finish pluckin' this chicken.

Left you guys hangin' Saturday afternoon, with Good Citizen forlornly contemplating both steaming shoes and darkness in heart.

Decide to abandon boat for the time being, still have to be in Plano for niece's and nephew's birthday party that evening. Attempt to unhook trailer. HITCH JAMMED. Heavy sigh revisited. Climb in back of truck, know I have scissor jacks in tool bin but not exactly where. Naturally, they are at the very bottom under about 400 pounds of other junk.

Unload tool bin. Drag out jack. Pry trailer off hitch ball; BOOM!! KA-CHANG!! Boat and trailer, balance having been upset by missing wheel, lurch wildly upward and land solidly on exposed outdrive. Heavy steel trailer tongue misses Good Citizen's jawline by about the breadth of a moth's wing. Good Citizen is totally unsurprised; pretty S.O.P. for this day. Leave stupid thing sitting on side of road and drive sullenly away, at this point entirely willing to let Highway Department worry about it from now on. Fully expect to never see boat again.

SUNDAY: Wife unwilling to concede Bayliner to Highway Dept. (%&$#*@!!!) Wife encourages Citizen to explore other options. After about three hours on Web, find out that wife has, while on way to church, seen a boat trailer with 'FOR SALE' sign in Garland. Have wife send photo taken from phone. Have wife send phone number on sign. Call phone number; trailer owner is willing to part with axle only and disassemble for $125.

Rather than driving all the way back to boat to measure axle, decide to chance that trailer for sale has suitable axle. Drive to Garland, spend an hour helping seller remove axle from 'for sale' trailer. Pay him; load up axle, including wheels and tires. Drive 45 miles back to disabled boat. AXLE IS NINE INCHES TOO SHORT(insert your choice of colorful language here).

Citizen, at this point, accepts that boat is actively malign, evil personified, and that Satan and all his minions reside within. Hallucinate that I can HEAR THEM gleefully high-fiving. Decide within that moment that DEFEAT IS NOT AN OPTION. Unload tools. Lever up entire boat and trailer on two scissor jacks and begin removal of broken axle, sitting cross-legged on shoulder, resolutely ignoring buffeting, hurricane-force wind shear initiated by traffic (including VERY large Freightliners) screaming past at Indy-like speeds, six inches from Citizen's potential mangled corpse. News flash: ALL EIGHT axle U-bolts are rusted shut; every single one has to be broken in half to remove axle. Citizen's is hypertensive but unsurprised.

Load axle in truck; weight: about 250 pounds. Contemplate value of boat and value of victory over the Devil versus co-pay and deductible for hernia surgery; shrug and carry on. Drive all the way back to Plano with axle and associated parts (including retrieved runaway wheel) in back of truck.

On Web again; find trailer parts company in south Dallas that looks like it may possibly carry an acceptable replacement axle. Parts company opens at 07:30 Monday. MapQuest says it's about an hour and a half from Plano. Estimate about two hours to replace axle and wheels once back on site. THE CLOCK AND CALENDAR ARE NOT MY FRIENDS.

Awaken at 05:00 Monday. Drive to parts house. Things are looking up; they actually have a direct replacement. Another $250; what the hell, in for a penny blah blah blah. Load up new axle and new wheels. Drive 45 miles back to Demon Boat, while wondering idly what costs are associated with an exorcism.

10:30; arrive at now-familiar highway shoulder; note without detectable emotion that boat has, during the night, been red-tagged for removal. HA! Unload axle; that 250 lbs again, but this time gravity is an ally. Place body in harm's way one more time, but this time things are looking up, and new axle goes on without major heartburn. Finish up. Torque U-bolts one more time and drop trailer, MUCH more cooperative now that it's not trying to fall over on its side, back on hitch. DRIVE AWAY, reflecting idly that no one is gonna believe ANY of this.

NEXT: The Trials And Tribulations Of Registering And Titling An Out-Of-State Boat.

LET'S FINISH THIS so I can purge my wetware of the entire episode. Besides, Dear Reader, we got places to go and things to see.

TUESDAY (remember, we HAVE to leave on Wednesday):
Arise early, check over Bayliner documentation again, and drive all the way back to Fort Worth (I will cheerfully go years before seeing my former city of residence again after all this). Drop Allison off at her doctor for scheduled checkup and proceed to Fish and Game office. Arrive just as it opens. Effect entry. Present self before uniformed officer at window; immediately notice that uniformed officer's demeanor suggests (pick one) dire family circumstances or acute indigestion. Suspect that Fish and Game and Department indiscriminately trades employees with DMV; utter indifference is dead giveaway. Again, Citizen is required to explain that MAINE DOES NOT TITLE BOATS; only evidence of ownership is (expired) registration and a hand-written bill-of-sale. Utter disbelief, and opinion of Citizen's nefarious and possibly criminal intent, are engraved on officer's visage. Entire staff of Fish and Game facility summoned to witness the idiot that towed 1988 boat 2000 miles (by this time Citizen senses a trend).

Numerous telephone calls to the State Capital in Austin ensue; eventually (by now visibly annoyed) officer concedes that documentation is sufficient to proceed with registration and application for title. Only one snag: State of Texas requires a) hull Serial Number (no problem), b) engine Serial Number (again, got it), and c) OUTDRIVE SERIAL NUMBER. $&@$&%@!!!! at this point, the reader must remember, the boat is 65 hard-traffic city miles away and, in any event, Citizen is already aware that the decal which contains said serial number (and was applied over TWENTY YEARS and uncountable salt-water immersions ago) is totally indecipherable and couldn't be had even if Citizen had Horatio Kane from CSI Miami at his disposal. Which he did not.

Fish and Game officer is (now cheerfully!) adamant that title/registration cannot be applied for without number. Citizen is insane with rage. Citizen retires to parking lot to ponder universe's chaos and plot his next move in what has become a cosmic chess match.

Call directory assistance, get number for Bayliner. Call Bayliner; plead with receptionist to pull records on boat by hull number. Receptionist puts Citizen on interminable hold. Returns to phone; with obvious pride announces that with GREAT DIFFICULTY she has obtained the ENGINE NUMBER. ARRRRGGGGGHHHH!!! Advise once again that engine number is in hand. Receptionist then admits that Bayliner did not log outdrive numbers in 1988. Advises Citizen to call Volvo (who is the manufacturer of the outdrive). After another hold, provides Volvo's number.

Volvo: 'We just sell 'em, we don't record the outdrive number, we don't even know where the unit goes after it leaves here'. Sudden comic-book light bulb appears above Citizen's aching head: 'I think I can barely make out the numbers on this (invisible 'cause it's far,far away) outdrive; if you can just give me the letter and number format, maybe I can decipher it'.

JACKPOT!! Gullible but amiable Volvo drone readily provides Volvo's standard (for 1988) serial number format. Crafty and clever Citizen promptly and creatively MAKES UP a fictitious (but darned sure formatted right!) outdrive number and triumphantly rushes back into Fish and Game office, maniacally brandishing now-completed paperwork. Miracles do happen; obviously-disappointed window attendant reluctantly ACCEPTS CITIZEN'S MONEY AND ISSUES REGISTRATION!!! VICTORY IS MINE BWWWAAA HHAAAAA HAAAAA!!!!!

OK, I'm all done with this story (and finished talking about myself in the third-person, it's becoming tedious anyway). Suffice it to say that I went back to the doctor, picked up Allison, and we still had time to get over to Lake Worth, talk to the Justice of the Peace (a very nice lady whose jurisdiction includes the lake where I got the ticket) and get the citation dismissed. Then we went merrily off to the dentist, where Allison DIDN'T CRY.

In closing, I want you aware, Dear Reader, that this post has been thoroughly therapeutic and that, if we can all derive one lesson from all this, it's as follows: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, GIVE UP. Failure only becomes possible when you surrender.

The Llano. Lake LBJ. LBJ's Ranch

After several days in the Alamo City, we headed off to the Hill Country. Our first stop: Allison's dad Marion's home RV park, called the Lazy L & L, where he keeps his trailer more or less permanently. It's a real nice place with about 2000 feet of Llano River waterfront, and it's got a private put-in for kayaks and rafts right in the park. We spent the day there, swam and kayaked the river and had a barbecue.

The following photos, in no particular order, may summarize what it's like on the Hill Country rivers. We weren't very good with the camera that day, so the coverage is well short of documentary-quality.

Allison And Mutts On The Bank:


Stupid Me Freezing In The River:


Allison's Brother And Fiancee In Rapids:


ANYWAY, maybe these pics will give readers a sense of what the Texas river experience is about. The area is beautiful, the region's residents are very visitor-oriented and the climate is favorable about eight months a year.

Onward and upward!!!

Lake LBJ, named after President Lyndon B. Johnson (author's note: DUH!), is part of the Highland chain of seven lakes starting in Austin and going northwest for over 85 miles. Lake LBJ starts near Horseshoe Bay, 45 miles from Austin, and goes all the way to Kingsland. It's also a 'constant level' lake. This is important in a semi-arid area and normally indicates a hydro dam in place. It also means that other area reservoirs' levels are sacrificed during dry times to keep LBJ's shoreline more or less consistent. Bad for the less-favored lakes; good for Lake LBJ waterfront property owners! The lake's just over 21 miles long with a maximum width of 10,800 feet. It's also perfect for sailing, boating and all water related activities; it gets warm early and stays swimmable well into October.

We had reservations, made weeks earlier, at a waterfront facility called Lake LBJ Resort. Our Bayliner was down for the count; I had made arrangements for a slip during our stay and had to change that on-the-fly to rent a sport boat from the resort.

Again, we bite at photojournalism; the lake was warm enough to ski, and we did, but we FORGOT the camera that day so no documentation. You'll just hafta take my word.

Lake LBJ Resort is a complex on a sheltered cove about halfway between the dam and the Colorado River inlet. The place consists of the owners' residence, a bulding with a bunch of various-sized suites, the bar-restaurant with a fantastic selection of everything from locally-brewed beers and wines to Glenlivet thirty-year-old Scotch, and a full-service marina and service shop. There is a double-tiered deck with just the right combination of shade and sun and a totally bitchin' view of the private cove and the lake beyond.

Owners Georg (that's right, Georg, no 'e', a wonderfully well-travelled and cosmpolitan Austrian who was a cruise line officer in his previous life and who sounds JUST like Ahhh-Nuld) Pengg, wife Carleen and seven-year-old daughter Athena are warm and accomodating hosts; they know how to make a guest feel at home. Georg is also the chef, and he turns out a rip-roaring brisket every day for sandwiches and BBQ plates. He also has a well-deserved rep for 'the Best Hamburger On The Lake' and the locals all come to him for lunch, always a positive sign.

Fishing From Dock; Boat By Pump Is Our Rental:


The Boat We Rented:


Our Suite At Lake LBJ Resort:


The 'Hosternator' Georg And Wife Carleen


The Restaurant Deck; Shady OR Sunny, Take Your Pick!


Lake LBJ Resort in short: HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. Their Web site can be seen at:
http://www.lakelbjfun.com
And this time I ACTUALLY HAVE PERMISSION for using some of his site photos. If I keep this up, my reputation for unapologetic piracy'll be in serious jeopardy...

After about three days we went on to Fredericksburg, still the Hill Country but now right smack dab in the German area. This is where the vast majority of the original settlers came, under killingly adverse conditions, from Central and Western Europe. You can see a synopsis of the settlement of the town here:
http://www.fbgtx.org/other/history.htm

We stayed at the local La Quinta (kinda conventional for us, indeed, but a good ol' standby when travelling with the dogs 'cause they ALL accept pets, and don't give you a hard time about it like some other, ahem, chains) and it was a good one, new and well-managed.

An absolute must while visiting this section of TX is the vast spread where Lyndon Johnson made his home. Lots of deal-making and arm-twisting went on here; Johnson found it advantageous to negotiate with opposition members of Congress, as well as foreign dignitaries, on his home turf... he and his whole clan are also buried in the family plot. The U.S. Park Service's tour is comprehensive and informative, lotsa fun.

LBJ's Back Yard; Lots Of Deals Made Here:


A View Of (Part Of) The 70,000 Acres, Fenced And Cross-Fenced:


President Johnson flew home to his Texas ranch 74 times during his 5 years in office, living and working for 490 days- almost a quarter of his presidency—at the Texas White House.

The House Johnson Was Born In:


Some Of His Cars:


Another View Of The Car Collection. Note The Blue One:


The small blue car in the foreground is an AmphiCar. This little automotive aberration was built in Germany from 1961 to 1968, with a total production was 3,878 vehicles. The Amphicar is the only civilian amphibious passenger automobile ever to be mass produced. 3,046 Amphicars were imported into the United States between 1961 and 1967. It's rear engined and uses a 4 cylinder British-built Triumph Herald engine, only 43hp...

The Park Service's spiel has it that Johnson, when hosting with any new Secret Service agent or Cabinet member, delighted in driving the little car up to the edge of any one of the ponds on the ranch. He would then exclaim that 'Oh, hell, I got no brakes' and let the ugly thing roll right into the water. His victim's reaction when presented with this 'emergency' went a long way toward forming his lasting impression of that person's courage and composure...

LBJ's Headstone:


An Interesting (For Us) Headstone In The Family Plot:


The same day, we visited a place called Wildseed Farms, just east of Fredericksburg. They grow a huge selection of wildflowers, and they produce seed for many states' highway departments and city beautification committees all over the country. We didn't even know about the place, but you can't miss it from the highway; it's one of those sights that literally makes ya catch your breath...

The Poppy Field At Wildseed Farms:


Really No Caption Needed:


They also raise a huge selection of butterflies; apparently some of the varieties of flowers cultured here need specific species for proper pollinization. You can actually go inside the lepidoptarium (hmmmm... is that really a word?) and watch them emerging from their chrysallises (say THAT five times real fast).

Butterfly At Wildseed Farms:


Another One:


NOW, I'm done with that trip. I'm getting bored with it, and we are in Montana right now, and I'm getting so far behind that I'm DREAMING NIGHTLY about this stupid blog. I'm gonna take you back to Dallas tomorrow for the Great 2008 Bayliner Disaster And Roadside Fire (you thought you'd seen the last of that fiberglass P.O.S., didn't you?), then I'm determined to get us back on the road, totally current within the week and into the northern Rockies.

CYA soon...

San Antonio Adventures

I'm sure my readers are tired of the endless monotony of the previous couple posts; however, I felt them necessary if I'm to maintain any vestige of continuity. On a more selfish note, I don't wanna look back later and see I've missed a chunk of time. This thing is for me too, you know, and as I do all the work, I can post anything my black and ill-intentioned heart desires...

FACT OF INTEREREST: Spanish missions were not churches. They were Indian towns with the church as the focus where, in the 1700s, the native people were learning to become Spanish citizens. In order to become a citizen, you had to be Catholic; that's why the King of Spain sent missionaries to acculturate (?) them.

Known as 'Queen of the Missions', San Jose is the largest of the series and was almost fully restored to its original design in the 1930s by the WPA (Works Projects Administration, a Depression-era money pit designed to mitigate Hoovervilles and suppress food riots). Mission San José is cool 'cause it shows the visitor how all the missions might have looked over 250 years ago. So, I chose this one to show you.

Mission San Jose; Allison's Dad Marion, Brother Josh, Fiancee Kellie


Cathedral Tower At Mission San Jose:


Wider View Of The Main Compound:


While in San Antonio, we stayed at a historic hotel, now called the Sheraton Gunter. AMAZING PLACE. We stayed on what they call the 'Club Floor'; it's got a facility, accessible only to that floor, that's essentially a 24-hour hospitality suite. It has food, beverages, a 60-inch plasma TV, and business services. I've not seen anything like it, but I LIKE IT.

The roots of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel date back to the first year of the Republic of Texas, and it holds a prominent place in the state’s history.

In 1837, just a year after the fall of the Alamo, the Frontier Inn lit its kerosene lamps and opened its doors on the corner of what was then El Rincon and El Paseo streets. It enjoyed the best location in the center of town, and quickly became a favorite among the waves of new settlers swarming in from the East.

The Frontier changed hands twice before becoming The Gunter Hotel at the turn of the century, when this intersection had become a vital part of San Antonio’s business center. It was then that Jot Gunter and a group of investors had decided that the state’s most progressive city needed a palatial new hotel. So they purchased the property and added six new stories in steel, concrete and buff brick, making it the largest building in San Antonio (at the time). The official opening was November 20, 1909.

The Sheraton Gunter San Antonio:


Our Room At The Sheraton Gunter:


Club Suite At The Gunter:


Sick of doing this for today. This post to be extended tomorrow.

Scotty

OK, I'm back, and again the term 'tomorrow' seems to have little or no specific link to my life. We have had several days of WAY above-normal daytime highs here on the Yellowstone, and I have been busy trying to make a photographic record of the convulsions the river is undergoing as a result of SERIOUS snowmelt about 60 miles west. More about that later, but while taking pictures this morning we witnessed a giant chunk of the east bluff fall thunderously about 500 feet into the river, creating a mini-tsunami. Sounded like a jet taking off, and it scared the hell outta Allison. Not unlike, by the way, what you see in nature programs about the Greenland ice cap, looked and sounded the same...

Last note about San Antonio, then we'll move on to the river system and the lake. We ate dinner in a restaurant, about a block away from the Alamo, called The Chart House, at the top of the Tower of the Americas. The Tower is a leftover from the 1963HemisFair, and is a soaring concrete structure 780 feet high. That's a full 200 feet taller than the famous Seattle Space Needle! The entire upper floor rotates once an hour, giving the most incredible panoramic view of the entire area. The service and cuisine are fantastic, and the waiters actually appear at your table in teams and deposit your order in an astoundingly choreographed manner, almost like a professionally-rehearsed dance.

Wide View Of The Tower Of The Americas:


Closeup At Night Of The Tower Crown:


Lastly, for a REALLY cool QuickTime presentation of what it's like at the top, go here:
http://www.toweroftheamericas.com/360.html

A Hill Country Primer

This writer is fully aware that most of his readers hail from the Lone Star State; however, as this journal has grown, and as we travel the continent, I have begun receiving emails and comments from people as far away as California, Alaska, and Canada. In addition, there are folks we have met along the way who have expressed interest in keeping up with us through this medium (Hi Bob and Patty; hi Mike and Marlene!). SO: for those interested enough to read it, here is a condensed description of what I mean by the term 'the Texas Hill Country'.

The area in question is a region of Central Texas, that features rolling, (somewhat) rugged, hills that consist primarily of limestone. The Hill Country terrain can be seen in San Antonio's northern suburbs and Austin's western suburbs. It's essentially the eastern portion of the Edwards Plateau, bounded by the Balcones Fault on the east and the Llano Uplift to the west and north. The terrain is punctuated by a large number of limestone rocks and boulders and a thin layer of topsoil which makes the region prone to flash flooding.

Several cities were settled at the base of the Balcones Escarpment, including Austin, San Marcos, and New Braunfels, as a result of springs discharging water stored in the Edwards Aquifer.

Due to its karst topography, the area also features a number of caves, such as Inner Space Caverns and Natural Bridge Caverns. The deeper caverns of the area form several aquifers which serve as a source of drinking water for the residents of the area.

Several tributaries of the Colorado River (the Texas one, as opposed to the one that cuts the Grand Canyon. That one flows on the other side of the Continental Divide and drains into the Gulf of California), including the Llano and Pedernales rivers, which cross the region west to east and join the Colorado as it cuts across the region to the southeast, drain a large portion of the Hill Country. The Guadalupe, San Antonio, Frio, and Nueces rivers originate in the Hill Country.

These rivers are famous regionally, and somewhat less so elsewhere, for their excellent floating. 'Floating', for the uninitiated, consists primarily of dropping any kind of formal or improvised raft in the water, jumping onto it, and then going wherever the river takes you, consuming uncounted gallons of beer while braving melanoma and intermittent rapids. Arranging for someone to pick the up floaters further down the watercourse, while sometimes actually done, is of secondary importance. This results in the unorthodox appearance, on any sunny day, of significant numbers of bathing suit-clad, barefoot, drunk people, many with giant inner tubes in tow, hitching rides on any of a number of secondary highways in the region. This writer has, naturally, NEVER engaged in this undignified, humiliating behavior himself...

The area is also unique for its fusion of Spanish and Central European (German, Swiss, Austrian, Alsatian, and Czech) influences in food, beer, architecture, and music that form a distinctively "Texan" culture separate from the state's Southern and Southwestern influences. For example, the accordion was popularized in Tejano music in the 19th Century due to cultural exposure to German settlers. Any non-Hispanic construction worker anywhere in the U.S., if asked in confidence, will advise you that he wishes this were not so. Mexican polkas can be maddeningly, ahem, homogeneous.

In recent years, the region has emerged as the center of the Texas wine industry. Three American Viticultural Areas are located in the areas: Texas Hill Country AVA, Fredericksburg in the Texas Hill Country AVA, and Bell Mountain AVA. Texas wines, while still largely unknown internationally, have in recent years garnered an increasing amount of regional and North American acclaim.

Out Of Georgia. Tribulations. Bad Sentences.

The photo in the last post captioned 'Forrest Gump's Alabama' represents only a miniscule snapshot of the marathon drive back to Texas after finishing in Albany. We set a personal best that trip; we hauled our house EIGHT HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIVE MILES that day, all the way to Greenville in North Texas, before calling calf-rope. Conclusion: fifteen hours is way too much, and there is a darned good reason why most RVers cap their travels at about 400 miles daily.

Anyway, we arrived at the Greenville KOA at about 10PM, fighting through intermittent thunderstorms all the way across Mississippi and Louisiana, and got set up and in bed by 11. At about 30 minutes past midnight, the tornado sirens in the vicinity all sounded at once, so I unhitched the trailer in the pouring rain and we vamoosed in the truck to the dubious protection of the nearest underpass. We took a family vote, and the consensus is that we don't wanna be in that 5th-wheel when it does its impression of an upended turtle.

8AM, no visible damage to either us or the house, and back on the road; we needed to be in McKinney TX by 9 to drop off the trailer at McClain's RV (our home dealer) for some yearly maintenance (bearing pack, A/C service, seal lubrication, etc.) and minor warranty work. We still had to pick up the little Bayliner (see the post about hauling that thing all the way from Maine) and we were due at a waterfront hotel called Lake LBJ Resort that afternoon. Had a suite and a boat slip waiting, and we really needed a little break from the (inevitable, I have concluded) slight but well-defined claustrophobia resulting from living in 200 square feet...

Got to Chad's (brother-in-law) office, where boat is stored in the back lot since we brought it back. Find that Plano had BIG hail in the same storm from last night; find boat's starboard glass shattered. Boat unusable as it sits. Haul it over to Chad and Michelle's to attempt patchwork repairs. Realize that ALL MY TOOLS ARE IN THE TRAILER. Repairs, even basic ones, logistically impractical. Blood pressure, adrenaline level and heart rate spike to stratospheric heights. Give up in disgust. Call the resort; they have a ski boat we can rent. AARRGH.

Call Bryan (that's Scotty's son, for the casual reader) in Fort Worth; ask him if he wants that stupid boat. He reacts enthusiastically. Hitch up boat, dogs, suitcases and wife, and haul currently-worthless boat 60 miles. Drop off boat. Notice with mild disinterest that he really has no room for boat. Wonder vaguely what the hell he was thinking. Decide I don't care and park it in his driveway with trailer tongue blocking the (public) sidewalk in front of his house.

At last, we were on the way to the Hill Country!

Last Savannah Post- I Promise- Paula Deen Tour

For those of my readers who have (a) been hiding with Osama, (b) been on a top-secret 5-year Mars expedition, or (c) absolutely no interest in such things, you need some background. The rest of you, read on anyway just for delight in exposure to my elegant prose.

There exists a highly popular cable/satellite TV channel called The Food Network. Essentially, its programming niche consists of about 736 million different people, each having his or her own show about various elements of the gastronomical arts, food selection and preparation, etc. etc. etc. I, and no doubt vast numbers of other men, have arrived at a sort of quid pro quo with our Significant Others. Specifically, we 'permit' (HA!) the TV to be tuned there for extended periods as a kind of barter currency to exchange for being allowed to (occasionally) watch football, the Sci-Fi Channel, and other belch-and-fart guy stuff.

Those of us guys that actually WATCH the durned thing from time to time (I know there are some because I've gotten other guys to admit it) will, if held at the point of a large-caliber firearm, admit that the network can occasionally be entertaining. I personally like The Food Doctor, Alton Brown, host of a show called Good Eats. He's cool 'cause he's actually a scientist and reminds me of Doctor Strangelove...

ANYWAY, it turns out that one of the superstars of the channel is a lady named Paula Deen. See if you recognize her; if not, choose (a) (b) or (c) above.

Paula Dean Stock Photo, Used Totally W/O Permission:


She is actually from Albany originally, and we got a unique insight into her early years because the owner of the RV park where we stayed, Jack Stone (famous throughout SW Georgia and Dougherty County and proud owner of Jack Stone's Creekside RV Resort) is also a 30-year County Commissioner and went to high school with both Paula and her long-time (and now ex-) husband Jimmy Deen.

Paula grew up dirt-poor, and is a pretty cool example of The American Dream. She now has about a jillion cookbooks, an autobiography that has sold more copies than The Bible, and two or three little shows on Food Network that together garner enough viewers to turn Ted Turner green. She puts two pounds of butter in every recipe and I can feel my arteries stenosing every time I see her face.

AGAIN ANYWAY, Allison is a huge fan, so we took a guided tour of Paula's Savannah and here are some pictures...

The Market Where Paula Got Her First Produce:


The Church Where Paula And Michael Groover Got Married:


Her shows are:
Paula's Home Cooking
Paula's Party

Her restaurants are:
The Lady And Sons
Bubba's Oyster House (see picture below, we met Bubba, Paula's brother here)

See her Web site here: http://www.pauladeen.com

Scotty And Allison And Bubba At Bubba's Oyster House:


NOTE: We had broiled oysters and what they call in Georgia a 'Low Country Boil' at Bubba's; that is one of the best restaurants we have ever been in. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

Me On The Back Veranda At Bubba's; Yes, It Is Right On The Marsh:


AND NOW I'M DONE WITH GEORGIA. I can hear the cheers all the way from my current perch, which consists of my feet dangling in the (ICE-COLD!) Yellowstone River. I have a LOT more Georgia pictures, including one that I forgot to tell you about where a fellow RV couple felt sorry for the lone mallard in the pond at the campground. These people actually called a bird dealer (?!?) and had another duck DELIVERED TO THE CAMPGROUND. Wow, we RVers are a weird bunch...

Oh, Hell, Here It Is, Duck And New Friend:


FINALLY, A Candid Pic Of Forrest Gump's Alabama:


SO: we say adios, sayonara, hasta, goodbye to Georgia. Hadda good time there, folks are real nice, but DO NOT wanna be there when full summer arrives.

NEXT UP: Texas Hill Country, the Boat Fiasco, and lotsa other stuff. Tired now. Bye.

Tybee Island And My Version Of 'Tomorrow'

WELL! Obviously I am once again a lying, incompentent layabout whose personal temporal stream runs at a significantly more languid rate than others'. I guess I'll stop using the term 'tomorrow' because it never seems to work that way.

Anyway, here are the Tybee Island photos, captions, and random observations. As a reminder, a click on any of the pics will result in an expanded view. Then just hit 'back' on yer browser to return to the post.

Here's me on the beach at Tybee. Note the (unwitting) capture of the parasail at top left. Looks like a quarter moon. Those guys were HAULING. It was very windy and cold but the guys sailing seemed unfazed; maybe 'cause they had DRY SUITS and all I had was SHORTS.

Scotty On Beach At Tybee:

Tybee is an unlikely combination of South Padre, Coney Island, and Fort Knox. Everywhere one looks are reminders that this little lump of sand sits at the entrance to a strategically vital waterway (the aforementioned Savannah River). Jarringly intermingled with vacation homes, amusement parks and motels are fortifications ranging from earthworks from the Revolutionary period, to the still-visible berm raised by the Union forces when they zapped Pulaski (see previous post) to reinforced concrete howitzer emplacements of WWII vintage.

Allison And Mutts On WWII Gun Pad:


Howitzer Arc Looking At Cockspur Island:


In addition, the lighthouse here is one of the most historically and navigationally important on the lower East Coast. See here:
www.tybeelighthouse.org
if you're interested in the lighthouse's history. I'll tell you one thing; that darned thing is TALL. From the top (that is, once you catch your breath and fight off cowardice and vertigo) you can clearly see the river bridge at Savannah, and the city itself a good 20 miles upriver from the light.

The Tybee Light From The Ground:


In this next photo, note the position of Allison's left hand. The bruise on my waist from that Vulcan Grip Of Death hurt for almost a week.

At The Top Of The Tybee Light:


Looking Seaward From Tybee Light:


Looking NW From Tybee Light:


NOTE: The spit of land in the background is once again Cockspur Island (where you can vaguely make out Fort Pulaski to the right center). Directly below and to your front is the spot where the rifled artillery sat that killed the fort.

The First-Order Fresnel Lens, Tybee Light:


Some Of The 148 Stairs To Get To The Top:


Apropos Of Nothing, One Of About 164 Billion Azaleas We Saw:


OK, that's it for now. Next up: Scotty And Allison's Paula Deen Day (that's the Georgia lady from The Food Network, for the possibly one of you out there who hasn't heard of her). We took a tour that included the market she shops at, the church where she had her wedding, and lunch and photos at her restaurant Bubba's. I'll get back to ya soon.

Me

Fort Pulaski And Cockspur Island

Another in the never-ending (we hope!) series of side trips, taken this time from Savannah, was a day jaunt down the coast to Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island, then to the popular resort of Tybee Island. As you will note later in this section, Tybee figures into the Fort Pulaski saga, so I am gonna kind of tie the two together; that’s appropriate ‘cause we did them both in one day anyway.

Fort Pulaski, built by the U.S. Army before the Civil War, is located near the mouth of the Savannah River, blocking upriver access to Savannah. Fortifications such as Pulaski, called third system forts, were considered invincible, but the new technology of rifled artillery changed that; as I noted in an earlier post, this little back-alley brawl changed warfare forever. On February 19, 1862, Union Brig. Gen. Thomas W. Sherman ordered Captain Quincy A. Gillmore, an engineer officer, to take charge of a seige force and begin the bombardment and capture of the fort. Gillmore emplaced artillery on Tybee Island, about a mile southeast of the fort, and commenced firing on April 10 after Confederate Colonel Charles H. Olmstead refused to surrender his command. Olmstead knew (or thought he knew) that the effective range of standard cannon was only ¾ mile, and thought that he and his garrison would kinda just be thumbing their noses at the Union forces across the strait. As far as Olmstead knew, the Union attackers might just as well have been throwing rocks for all the effect they could have at that range. BUT, the best-laid plans of men and mice, blah, blah; within hours, Gillmore’s rifled artillery had breached the southeast scarp of the fort, and he continued to pour shells through the resulting hole. Some of these destructive little airmail parcels shortly began to damage the traverse that shielded the powder magazine in the northwest bastion. Realizing that if the magazine exploded the fort would be seriously damaged and the garrison would suffer severe casualties, Olmstead surrendered after 2:00 pm on April 11. The supposedly-impregnable hunk of rock lasted LESS THAN 30 HOURS against modern riflery!! I am embarrassed for them.

The Fort From The Tybee Side:


The lighter areas of brick represent replacement stones, set after the war to plug the 747-sized chunk of the wall that was knocked out before the fort surrendered. Note the other holes caused by shells that 'just missed' what the Union guys were aiming at...

Another View Of The Damage:


Me Hiding From That D@*n%d Wind On The Gun Parapet:


Here is the one where I'm eating a piece of tooth-unfriendly bread called hardtack. Entire Army divisions used to survive on this crap and very little else. No wonder they all got scurvy and rickets. We bought it at the little store inside the fort. After I ate the whole thing (because Allison said I wouldn't) we looked at the wrapper and noted with mild interest the small print that read "historical reference only; NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION". Oh, well.

Scotty Eating Hardtack:


Just as an aside, the fort was named for the Polish Count Casimir Pulaski, who fought (and died!) valiantly fighting for the Americans in their ill-fated assault on Savannah during the Revolutionary War. Here (somewhat off-topic, I am fully aware) is a photo of his monument as it now stands in one of Savannah's squares. The breastworks where the British held off the Americans during this, the second-bloodiest battle of the Revolution after Bunker Hill, runs right under the obelisk.

Monument To Casimir Pulaski In Savannah:


Enough for today. I will pick up this post and give y'all the lowdown on Tybee tomorrow. Then, stay tuned in the next few days; I gotta get this thing up-to-date or I'll get so far behind I'll start omitting stuff. We're in Billings, Montana now, but I still hafta tell you about the 'Heinous Boat Trailer Disaster And Fire', as well as our trip to the Hill Country in April. And don't miss the 'Great Nebraska Blizzard And Stranding'. All this and more within the week.

Scotty